The silence was so loud it reverberated in her ears.
‘Is this you making a point, Marisa?’
She looked up to see him watching her through narrowed eyes.
‘No one ever accused me of subtlety. But, no, it’s not. The poor thing was in need of a home, that’s all. And I...’ She shrugged and lathered the dog’s fur. ‘It seemed right.’
She could have said more—about how she’d always wanted a pet, about her growing desire to care for something after being so alone. But in truth she’d looked into those hopeful, canine eyes and felt a twang of fellow feeling. Here was another outcast, someone who didn’t fit and didn’t expect to be wanted.
Damaso moved closer and the dog shivered. Marisa put out a soothing hand to gentle it.
‘I can find a good home for it. It doesn’t belong here.’ His offer surprised her and she jerked her gaze back up.
‘Thank you.’ His expression told her he didn’t want anything to do with the dog. ‘I appreciate it. But I want to look after him myself.’
If she could do a good job of looking after a dog, perhaps she could work her way up to caring for a baby. Besides, he trusted her; she couldn’t let him down now.
Damaso’s gaze shifted to the dog and Marisa sucked in her breath at the antipathy in that stare. No wonder the poor thing was shaking.
‘You can’t be serious. Look at it! It’s a mongrel. If you must have a dog, at least let me get one for you from a breeder.’
‘A pure-bred, you mean?’ Her hand slowed and she put the soap down.
‘Why not? Surely that’s more fitting?’
‘For a princess?’
‘It’s what you are, Marisa. There’s no point pretending otherwise.’
‘Is that what you think I’m doing? Pretending to be someone I’m not?’ Hurt scored her voice. Is that what he thought she’d been doing on her visit today?
‘Of course not.’ He strode away then spun on his foot. ‘Just look at it. No matter what you do, it will always be a slum-bred mongrel.’
The words echoed in her head. Marisa read Damaso’s taut features, the rigidity of his big frame. She’d only seen him like this once before, when he’d been so adamant she stay away from the favela.
Because he was ashamed of where and how he’d grown up?
It didn’t seem possible. She’d never met a man more grounded and self-assured than Damaso.
Yet he harped so often about her royal lineage, as if that mattered a scrap compared with character.
‘It’s probably carrying disease too.’
Marisa shook her head and reached for a bucket of rinse water. ‘I’ve taken Max to the vet and he’s had the all clear.’
‘Max?’
Marisa tipped the water gently over the dog and reached for another bucket.
‘He reminds me of my great-uncle, Prince Maximilian.’ Despite the tension in the air, she smiled. ‘Same long nose, same big brown eyes.’
Great-Uncle Max had been a scholar, happier with his books than playing politics, but he’d always had time for Marisa, even hiding her when she’d played hooky from history classes. But then Uncle Max had had a way of bringing the past alive in a way her teachers didn’t.
She blinked hard, surprised to feel her eyes prickle at the memory of those brief snatches of childhood happiness.
Damaso watched her intently from beneath lowered brows, his gaze shifting from her to the dog.
‘You really do care about the animal.’ There was a thread of shock in Damaso’s voice.
Admittedly Max, drenched and bony, wasn’t the most handsome dog around, but he had character.
Marisa shrugged and finished rinsing off the soap suds. Even she was surprised at how quickly she and Max had bonded. She couldn’t send him back to the streets, not now. Despite what Damaso thought, this wasn’t some deliberate test of his forbearance. It had been an impulsive decision that she’d known instinctively was right.
‘Very well, it can stay, but I don’t want to see it inside.’
Damaso turned back into the apartment before Marisa could thank him, but a tiny glow of heat flared inside and spread. ‘Hear that, Max?’ She reached for the towel Beatriz had provided and began to dry him. ‘You can stay.’
They’d both found sanctuary with Damaso. His reasons weren’t purely altruistic, since he was angling to convince her to stay long-term. But Marisa had experienced enough duplicity to know actions did count louder than words.
She wondered if Damaso had any idea how much his generosity meant.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘THE CITY LOOKS wonderful at this time of night.’
Damaso watched across the table as Marisa leaned back in her seat, sipping from a goblet of sparkling water as she surveyed the panorama. The view from his private roof garden had always been spectacular but he’d never found time to appreciate it until Marisa had moved in with him.
There were a lot of things he hadn’t fully appreciated.
His gaze roved her golden hair, loose over her shoulders, the dreamy expression in her eyes and the ripe lushness of her breasts beneath the filmy, sea-green top.
He’d known many beautiful women but none of them had made the breath seize in his lungs or his chest contract.
‘I love this city.’ Her smile widened.
‘You do?’ He raised his beer glass to his lips rather than reveal how pleased he was by her announcement. ‘Why?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s vibrant, so different from Bengaria. There’s so much happening, and the Paulistanos have such energy.’ She looked at the table between them and the remains of the meal Beatriz had served. Her hand slipped to her stomach. ‘Plus, I love the food. If I’m not careful, I’ll be fat as butter by the time the baby’s born.’
Damaso shook his head. Only a lover would know she’d put on a mere couple of pounds during her pregnancy. As that had only made her pert breasts fuller, he wasn’t complaining.
He tried to imagine her swollen with his child and a stab of possessiveness seared through him.
Just as well she enjoyed the life here. He wasn’t letting her go, even if she had yet to come to terms with the fact.
‘My uncle has invited me to his coronation.’
Damaso stilled, fingers tightening on his glass. ‘You’re not going? You hate Cyrill.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘At first I didn’t intend to, but I’m wondering. I don’t want to see him, but sometimes it feels like I’m hiding here, afraid to go home and face the music.’ Her jaw angled higher in that determined way she had. ‘I don’t like that.’
He frowned. ‘I thought you told me Bengaria wasn’t home.’
She shrugged. ‘I wasn’t happy there but it’s in my blood.’
‘So what are you thinking? That you owe it to your uncle to hold his hand through the coronation? You want to play happy families with him?’
Marisa’s mouth turned down. ‘Not that. I just wondered if it wasn’t better to face them all.’
‘Why?’ He leaned close. ‘So they can lecture you about your irresponsible behaviour in getting pregnant?’
Damaso silently cursed his straight talking when she winced and looked away. Yet everything in him rose up in protest at the idea of her leaving, even for a short visit.
If she went to Bengaria, what was to stop her staying? Certainly not love for him. They had great sex, and she seemed as content as he to spend time together, but nothing she’d done or said indicated she’d fallen for him.